You smoked the ESSE in you fingers, and then unexpectedly asked me for CHUNGHUA in my pocket. Of course, in the dream. You smoke the ESSE cigarettes which I got in your writing. But you don’t like me smoking. Cause you don’t like the smoke and taste. Every time you see the smoke around, you always try driving it away with you hand. And meanwhile, there’s no smile on your face any more. That’s it.
So I don’t smoke if you are there. I don’t want to see your smile away. Actually, I seldom smoke. Health, price and some other reasons. I do it mostly for social activities.
Tonight, three poor men, three packs of cigarettes; two boring men, eight bottles of beer. That’s what we were doing.
I wanted to call you. I was very sober. I was fine. But I didn’t dial the familiar number. You know why? Every time I call you when I drink wine outside, then you think I’ve been high. Don’t you think I don’t need to embolden myself with alcohol? I just don’t say those things many times. It doesn’t mean I don’t dare to do that.
I can tell what I have in my mind. If it’s must, I will do that. It’s not about timidity.
I can’t imagine the look of you smoking privately.
I want to see it.